


Personal Effects

by willwork4dean



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Established Relationship, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willwork4dean/pseuds/willwork4dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to wallflower's Pretty!G prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Note: _Okay, here’s the story of the story. Back in January, wallflower posted a fic prompt that was basically Pretty!G with pretty hair, and Sam realizing how pretty he is. See her original prompt here:_

_<http://ncisla-slash.livejournal.com/22760.html> _

_The story is a Sam/G slashfest, but I’ve tried to include canon where possible, even the parts of canon I don’t like. Any canon mistakes are mine, of course._

_TRIGGER WARNING: This story contains mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation, so please don’t read it if this triggers you. Seriously. Or just skip to the ending._

_This is my first NCIS:LA story, so I do hope you like it._

_Enough rambling! On to the pretty!_  
***  
***

_Personal Effects — Part One_

In April 2012, Agent Sam Hanna was declared dead in a firefight with Taliban-backed insurgents in Afghanistan.

Six months later, he walked out of the mountains to one of the last remaining NATO strongholds, missing two fingers on his left hand and bearing a livid scar on his forehead that neatly bisected one eyebrow.

After two days of debriefing, it was determined that Agent Hanna had not been turned by his captors, and he was allowed to return to the United States.

He arrived in San Diego and was flown to Los Angeles, where he waited on the blistering tarmac for an hour, his anger growing with every second.

At last a black SUV approached, and Owen Granger, Assistant Director of the Los Angeles OSP, stepped out, looking cool and composed in his grey suit.

“Agent Hanna,” he said politely. “Good to see you back among the living.”

Sam ignored his greeting and held up a cell phone. “Where the hell is G?”

“Agent Callen—”

“Don’t tell me he’s in the field,” Sam snapped. “He’s not answering any of his phone numbers. And I mean _any_ of them, even his—” He broke off.

“Even his double-secret spy phones,” Granger finished for him, his voice bland. “Yes, I know about those,” he added at Sam’s suspicious look. “Agent Hanna, would you please step into the car?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed further. “Why?”

“Because what I have to say is...” Granger’s eyes slid to the young NCIS agent who accompanied him. “Top secret.”

Sam gave a disgruntled sigh, but hefted his small duffle bag. The young agent opened the car door for him.

“Welcome home, Sir,” he said.

***

Inside the SUV, Granger nodded to the agent. “Ops,” he ordered, then closed the smoked glass window between the front and back seat as the car pulled out.

Sam waited until the window was closed. “Fine. Now tell me. How far under is he?”

Granger raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“G,” Sam said impatiently. “He’s obviously undercover, so much can you tell me? How deep is he?”

“About as deep as you can get.”

Sam scowled. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Agent Callen is dead.”

Sam turned and looked out the window, staring sightlessly at the endless LA traffic for several minutes.

“Who did it?” he growled eventually.

Granger leaned forward. “Sorry, I didn’t hear—”

Sam turned, and the look in his eye made Granger lean back in his seat. “Who killed him?”

Granger looked down at his hands, running the pad of his thumb over his immaculately manicured fingernails. “Agent Hanna—”

Sam’s voice grew deeper. “I wanna know who killed my partner.”

Granger looked up. “Why?” he asked mildly. “Are you planning on taking revenge?”

Sam spoke through his teeth. “I want to know if the men responsible for my partner’s death are in custody.”

“No.”

Sam’s hands tightened into fists. “Why not?”

“Because Agent Callen killed himself.”

***

Sam stared at him. “I don’t understand.”

Granger sighed again. “Twenty-four hours after your dogtags were delivered to Ops, Agent Callen shot himself in the head with his service weapon.”

“No.” Sam whispered.

“It’s true.”

“No,” Sam said, louder. “G would never do that.”

Granger raised his eyebrow again. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because I know my partner.”

“Are you certain?” Granger asked. “Perhaps you didn’t know him as well as you thought you did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Granger shrugged. “Maybe all those reckless actions over the years were just passive suicide attempts.”

Sam stared at him again. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Am I?” Granger asked. “Let’s face it, Callen was never stable. It if were up to me, he never would have been allowed in the service to begin with, with his background. You managed to keep him somewhat on the straight and narrow as long as you could, but once you were gone...”

Granger’s voice trailed off, and he shrugged again. “So Callen ate his gun rather than being shot to death in the field. Either way, it was inevitable. For what it’s worth,” Granger added stiffly, “I’m sorry.”

Sam turned and stared blindly at the traffic again. Granger was blessedly silent, until the car finally stopped and he cleared his throat.

“Director Hunter is waiting to speak with you,” he said.

***

If he hadn’t known it was the same building, Sam never would have recognized Ops. Gone was the traditional California architecture, with its warm lighting and inviting curves, its green plants and tidy alcoves for sipping tea. Gone were the desks with their neat piles of narrow-ruled legal pads and sharpened pencils. Gone was the gym, the boatshed, the hard-working-but-slightly-eccentric staff.

In their place was a bustling hive of drones: Grey desks in grey cubicles, where grey-suited workers busily typed at computers. Sounds were muffled and indistinct beyond a steady clicking of keyboards and the muted ring of phones. Staff members stared into their computer screens and muttered into their headsets, never making eye contact and certainly never engaging in an impromptu game of trashcan hoops, loser buys the beer.

“Follow me, Agent Hanna.” Granger took off at a brisk pace down a corridor. Sam followed numbly in his wake.

It was funny, he found himself thinking. He hadn’t liked the old Ops when he’d first seen it. It was too casual, too undisciplined, too un-military — everything Sam Hanna wasn’t. He’d thought the same thing of his new partner when he’d first met him. Sam was a SEAL, the ultimate team player, the straightest of straight arrows. Callen was rash, impulsive, and didn’t play well with others. The same could be said of the entire team Hetty eventually collected around her: Callen and Kensi and Deeks. (Especially Deeks.) They were all misfits somehow, except for Sam. He was normal, he told himself.

It would never work out.

But as it turns out, Sam hadn’t been as normal as he’d always insisted he was. Instead, he’d turned out to be one of Hetty’s slightly eccentric misfits, and Callen had turned out to be the perfect partner, albeit one who drove Sam crazy more often than not.

Sam didn’t know how this could possibly hurt worse. That the place he’d come to call home, the people who’d turned out to be his real family, that they were gone without a trace was bad enough. But this boring hive, with its bland, bustling efficiency, its anonymity, its very institution-ness — every single thing about it was wrong. One look at this place, and G would have dropped off the grid and never come back.

But a part of Sam was thankful for the change. It would have been even more unbearable to walk into the old Ops. His eyes would have automatically scanned the room for G, just like they did every time Sam returned from a solo assignment. He never felt easy in his body or his mind until he’d reconnected with his partner.

He’d find G restlessly prowling the halls, or working off one of his moods on the punching bag, or slouching at his desk throwing spitballs at Kensi. He’d glance up at Sam, and his mouth would twist in that sardonic smile.

“Took you long enough,” he’d drawl, but Sam could see the relief in his eyes.

Occasionally, he’d find G napping on a couch in a corner, because whenever Sam was gone, he’d revert to his not-sleeping-at-night thing.

“For Heaven’s sake, take him _home_ , Mister Hanna,” Hetty would order. “I’m tired of finding him on my furniture.”

Sam realized with a start that Granger had stopped walking and was staring at him. Sam cleared his throat and nodded. Granger opened a door and ushered him into a bland, grey, institutional conference room.

“Wait here,” he ordered, then closed the door behind him.

A few minutes later, the door opened and Eric slipped in the room. He was dressed in khakis, a short-sleeved dress shirt, dark shoes, and dark tie. He looked like mid-level IBM tech support, not to mention absolutely miserable. When he saw Sam, his eyes filled with tears.

Sam surprised himself by hauling Eric into a bear hug, wrapping his big arms around him and kissing his hair. They stood quietly for a moment, clinging to one another, then stepped back.

Eric wiped his eyes and looked furtively over his shoulder. “I don’t have much time,” he said.

Quickly, he filled Sam in. After Callen’s suicide, Hetty had been forced to resign in disgrace. Agent Hunter took over as director and, of course, broke up the remaining team. Deeks was sent back to the LAPD and was currently so far undercover not even Eric could track him. Kensi and Nell had been reassigned to Homeland Security in DC. Nate was now a consultant, traveling around the country helping VA hospitals set up psych units for returning service members with PTSD. Eric alone was left in LA, chafing under Director Hunter’s pointy little thumb.

“She makes me wear a tie,” he grumbled. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a brand new top-of-the-line smartphone, and handed it to Sam. “You didn’t get this from me.”

Just as Sam slipped the phone into his pocket, the door opened and Hunter entered, carrying a file folder. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Eric.

“Mister Beale. You are not authorized to be here.”

“Sorry, I thought this was the copy room,” Eric chirped and scuttled out the door before Hunter could reply.

Hunter’s expression soured even more, but she merely sat down at the table and gestured to Sam to do the same, then opened the file folder. She informed him that NCIS no longer required his services. For the next six months he would be paid administrative leave while he “got his head together.”

“Given your survival, your death benefits will obviously cease,” she added. “I took the liberty of informing your wife—”

“Ex-wife.”

Hunter pressed her lips into an even thinner line. “Ex-wife. She asked me to tell you she wants to speak with you immediately.”

“I’ll bet she does,” Sam muttered. As Hunter closed the file folder and started to rise, he spoke again. “I want G’s things.”

Hunter paused. “What do you mean?”

“G’s effects, his personal effects,” Sam snapped. “I want them.”

“You and I both know Callen didn’t have any personal effects.”

“Yes, he did.”

Hunter tilted her head. “Such as?”

“Personal things,” Sam growled. “An old address book, a photo of his mother.”

Hunter looked interested. “Where did he get that?”

“I don’t know,” Sam lied. “He kept everything in an old cigar box.”

Hunter shook her head. “There was nothing of that nature in his house. Honestly, if I hadn’t known Callen owned the place, I would have thought a homeless person had been squatting there.”

The thought of Hunter in G’s house made Sam dizzy with rage. It took every ounce of his military experience, not to mention his mama’s home training, to remain calm. “You’re saying you didn’t find the box with...” He swallowed. “With the body?”

“That’s correct.”

Sam leaned forward. “What more evidence do you need?”

Hunter frowned. “Evidence of what?”

“That the Comescus did this.”

Hunter stared at him. “Agent Hanna—"

“They killed G,” Sam said. “And they took the box as proof, or as some kind of trophy.”

“Agent Hanna, there was no evidence that this was a homicide, let alone that the Comescu family was behind it.”

“G would never kill himself,” Sam insisted. “Never. The Comescus did it, and they made it look like a suicide to cover their tracks.”

Hunter rose from the table. “This interview is over.”

Sam stood, too. “I’ll prove it,” he said. “I’ll prove you all wrong.”

Hunter reached for the door. “Someone will escort you out.”

“I want to talk to the team,” Sam said. “All of them.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Then let me speak with Hetty. It’s obvious your investigation missed something.”

Hunter’s narrow nostrils flared in annoyance “Former Director Lange has retired.”

“Where is she?”

“That information is classified, and according to this—” Hunter held up the file folder. “Your security clearance has been revoked. Good day, Mr. Hanna.” She closed the door behind her.

Sam stood for a moment, his body shaking with fury. The phone in his pocket chirped. Sam pulled it out automatically and glanced at the screen. There was a text, but the sender was a string of numbers rather than a name. The text read:

_USAir 2 DC, lvng LAX 10:48 PM, seat 18A, Sam Hamilton_

After a second, another text appeared:

_Good Luck_

“Thank you, Eric,” Sam whispered.

***

The next morning, Sam met Kensi at a sidewalk café in DC. She held his hand across the table, squeezing it tight.

“I’m so happy to see you,” she kept saying.

“I’m happy to see you, too, sweetie.”

“How’s Eric?”

“Hunter makes him wear a tie.”

Kensi hooted with laughter, and Sam found himself smiling. Her laugh was infectious as always.

“Poor thing. I’d love to get him transferred to DC, but I don’t exactly have a lot of pull.” Kensi made a face.

“Eric would hate DC.”

“I know.” Kensi stirred her coffee, even though Sam was sure she hadn’t put in any cream or sugar. “Is there any word from Deeks?”

“No,” Sam said softly.

“Eric said he’d try to track him, but...” Kensi shook her head.

“He’s in too deep.”

Kensi nodded, anxiously twisting the ring on her finger. Eric had told Sam the whole story. After G’s suicide, Deeks had decided life was too damn short, marched into Ops, got down on one knee in front of God and everybody, and proposed. Kensi shocked the entire room by accepting rather than punching Deeks in the head. They got married at City Hall, with Eric and Nell as witnesses.

Eric had thoughtfully loaded Sam’s phone not only with contact information for the entire team, but also photos, apps, and the few games he thought Sam capable of playing. (Sam had been annoyed but grateful after winning his twelfth game of Minesweeper on the redeye to DC.)

The wedding photos showed Deeks and Kensi, Eric and Nell in one happy clump, arms around each other, both at the ceremony and afterwards at the reception, which was held at a taco truck parked outside City Hall. Their smiling faces wore the dazed, slightly guilty expression of people who have grasped happiness in the wake of tragedy.

Sam took a sip of coffee to clear the ache from his throat. “What’s the case?”

Kensi made a face again. “Human trafficking. Deeks didn’t want to go under, but as soon as he heard that’s what it was--”

“He had to.”

Kensi nodded. “He swears it’s the last one, at least until after the baby comes.” She rested her hand on her slightly rounded stomach.

“Do you know what you’re having?” Sam asked.

Kensi smiled. “No, and I don’t want to. I want to be surprised.” She stirred her coffee again, her face clouding. “I kind of want a boy, so I can name him after my dad. But Marty’s afraid he’ll end up like his father.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sam said. “Deeks may be annoying, but he’s not an abuser.”

“That’s what I told him!” Kensi waved her hands in frustration. “But he’s worried it’s genetic or something and that having a boy will trigger it.”

“I’ll talk him down,” Sam offered. “Set him straight.”

“Would you?” Kensi smiled again, and Sam was struck by the change in her. She’d always been a beautiful woman, but now she was radiant. “You’ll kick his ass for me?”

“Anything you need — not that you need help with that. On the other hand,” Sam mused, “it might be good for you to have a girl. That way Deeks will have two women running his life instead of one.”

Kensi snorted with laughter, then sobered. “Have you seen your kids yet?”

Sam shook his head. “Olivia won’t let me. She says it would be too traumatic.”

“Compared to losing you? That’s crazy!”

Sam shrugged. “What can I say? For six months she finally had everything the way she wanted. She had the prestige and sympathy of being the widow of a SEAL—”

“Without the inconvenience of having you around.” Kensi scowled. “And she shouldn’t get to play the grieving widow when you’re divorced.”

“You can when you haven’t told anyone about the divorce.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Sam shrugged again. “You’ve met her parents. With me gone, all she had to do was wait a few months and then she could finally tell them about Gary, without the shame of having to tell them the truth about me. Meanwhile, the kids didn’t get my paycheck, but they still got my death benefits. Life was finally normal. No,” he added when Kensi started to argue. “She and Gary and the kids have a good life, a stable life. God knows I could never give them that.”

“Your children know you love them.”

“Yeah, they know, because I tell them every time I see them. But Gary’s the one who takes them to baseball practice and ballet class and helps them with their homework.”

“Because Gary’s not off serving his country.”

“Things are confusing enough for the kids right now,” Sam said, holding up his hand to stop Kensi’s tirade. “I don’t want to make it worse. Their needs are more important than mine.”

Kensi subsided. “You’re a good father, Sam.”

“And Olivia’s a good mother,” Sam said. “She’ll calm down eventually. She always does. And she’ll see that punishing me will only hurt the kids.”

Kensi glowered over the top of her coffee cup. “I suppose.”

“We’ll work it out. Olivia and Gary and me and—” Sam broke off. “You gotta present a united front to kids, otherwise the little rugrats will play you against each other. Kids are scary-smart. Deeks doesn’t stand a chance.”

But Kensi had caught his slip. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry about G, Sam.”

Sam looked down at his coffee cup. “I need to hear what happened.”

Kensi took his hand again. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t there. Deeks and I were on a case. Silicon Valley execs smuggling intel to North Korea. By the time we got back in town, it was all over. Hunter was there, Hetty was gone, and—”

“Who wrote the report? I need to see it,” Sam added when Kensi looked at him in concern.

“Hunter wrote it.”

Sam swore. “And she killed my security clearance. Yours too, I bet.”

“The whole team.” Kensi gave a sly smile. “Except for Nate. She tried, but Vance overruled her. Said the mental health of his operatives was more important than her petty vendetta. It was beautiful.”

Sam reached for his phone. “Where is Nate now?”

“Corpus Christi. A vet shot his family and then shot up the officers’ mess. Nate’s on site doing grief counseling. Don’t worry,” she said when Sam’s face fell. “Nell has already set up a Skype session between the two of you. Top-secret, of course. She worked her usual magic.” She tapped Sam’s phone with her fingernail. “It’s all in here.”

Sam let out a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Kensi started crying again. “I’m so glad you’re alive,” she said. “I’m sorry,” she added, impatiently wiping tears from her cheeks. “Stupid pregnancy hormones.”

Sam wasn’t fooled. He stood and kissed Kensi’s forehead. She closed her eyes and leaned against him for a second.

“Deeks is a lucky man,” Sam said.

Kensi laughed. “Tell me about it!”

***

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Nate’s forehead creased, and even through the computer screen, Sam could sense his concern.

“I need to know.”

“How are you sleeping?” Nate asked. “Have you been screened for symptoms of PTSD? How’s your support system?”

“Nate,” Sam warned.

Nate sighed in defeat, then tapped a few keys on his keyboard.

“Okay, I’m in. What do you want to know?”

“Who found the body?”

“Hetty. She informed Vance, who dispatched the crime scene division. No cops. It was handled internally.”

“I went to the house.” Sam didn’t tell Nate how he had broken down, kneeling on the floor sobbing and hugging G’s old bedroll to his chest. It still smelled like him. “There was no...physical evidence.”

“That’s right.” Nate’s eyes scanned the screen. “The crime scene was cleaned.”

“Did they take photos first?”

“Yes, but I’m not sending them to you.”

“Nate.”

“Forget it, Sam.”

Sam scowled. “Did they find a box? And old cigar box, with G’s personal effects in it?”

“No.” Nate frowned. “I wasn’t aware Callen had any personal effects.” He shook his head, his expression bleak. “I should have seen this coming, Sam.”

“Nate...”

“There must have been signs, something I missed. I’d been travelling so much...”

“You were doing your job.”

“When I heard about you, I should have gone to LA immediately—”

“Nate,” Sam said firmly. “It’s not your fault.”

Nate sighed and slumped in his office chair. “I know. It’s just — it’s such a waste.” He cleared his throat, straightened, and folded his hands on his desk, looking earnestly into the camera. “But let’s talk about you, Sam. How can I help you?”

“I want to talk to Hetty.”

Nate blinked at the sudden change of topic. “That’s probably a good idea. It would help you find some closure.”

“I don’t want fucking closure,” Sam said. “I want to nail the motherfuckers who did this.”

Nate blinked again. “What do you mean?”

“G didn’t kill himself. He was murdered. And if you start talking to me about denial,” Sam added as Nate opened his mouth. “I’ll fly down to Texas and kick your ass.”

“Okay, okay.” Nate held up his hands in defeat. “I don’t think this is healthy, but I can’t stop you.”

“Damn straight.” Sam paused. “Do you know where Hetty is?” It was the one contact Eric didn’t have.

“Hang on, let me check.” Nate tapped a few more keys. “I could lose my job for this, you know,” he grumbled half-heartedly.

“Not a chance,” Sam said. “You’re too valuable. Somebody has to put all us Humpty Dumptys together again when we break.”

Nate gave a half-smile, but Sam could tell he was touched.

“Here we are,” he said. “Hetty’s in Paris. I’ll have Nell forward the address to your phone.”

“Thanks.”

“Now, Sam.” Nate leaned forward, peering worriedly into his computer screen. “I want you to promise me that you’ll find someone to help you come to terms with—”

“Goodbye, Nate.” Sam cut the connection.

***

“What do you mean, she’s not here?” Sam stood in the courtyard of the flat, glaring at the honest-to-God actual British butler who answered the door.

“Miss Lange is in Budapest, sir.”

“Jesus.” Sam rubbed his eyes tiredly. He’d been going on sheer adrenaline for 48 hours, and it was starting to wear off. “Where in Budapest?”

“She didn’t say. But if you’ll pardon me, Agent Hanna, she left something for you.”

Sam blinked as the butler disappeared inside the darkened door of the flat. “I don’t recall giving you my name!” he called after the man.

“Indeed not, sir.” The butler reappeared with a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “But Miss Lange told me to expect you and to give you this.” He held out the package.

Even before he took it, Sam knew what it was.

Back at his hotel, he opened the cigar box with shaking hands. There were a few newer items, including a ticket stub from a Lakers game and Sam’s Live Strong bracelet. (He’d wondered where that disappeared to.) At the bottom of the box were the notebook listing all of G’s foster homes, the photo of his mom, and the toy soldier the assassin on the beach had given him before murdering her.

With a sigh, Sam closed the box. He knew where he needed to go.

***

The beach was almost deserted at this time of year, with only a few figures walking the strand. The wind was chilly, although the sun was still fierce. Sam told himself it was the combination of bright sunshine and blowing sand that made his eyes sting.

The Comescu summer home seemed deserted as well. Sam had scoped the place before getting out of his rented car. He’d have to return after nightfall to break in and do a more thorough assessment.

He found the spot on the beach where he’d been the year before, the spot where G had fallen to his knees, his face as pale as the clouds that raced overhead, his eyes as blue as the sky and as wide and open as a child’s.

The memory hurt unbearably, so Sam started walking along the shore, trying to look like a lost tourist rather than a man on a mission. Eventually, he came to a more deserted stretch of beach, where a few rocks jutted out into the water, forming a natural jetty. There was a ramshackle shed nearby, with a few boats tipped over onto the sand.

As he grew closer, Sam could see that one of the boats was new. He could tell at a glance it was handmade, a real work of art. A figure stood near it, planing the hull in swift, sure strokes.

Sam squinted into the sun. The man’s back was to Sam, so he couldn’t make out any features, just that he was dressed like a fisherman, with scarred boots, worn jeans, a bulky wool sweater, and a watch cap tugged low over his hair. The sun-bleached tips of his hair fluttered in the breeze.

It was the movement that gave him away. The wiry strength that belied the slight build, the natural grace heightened by confidence, and then, as Sam quickened his pace, the killer instincts.

For even as Sam’s footstep crunched on the gravel, the man’s hand went for his hip. He whirled around, and Sam found himself staring down the barrel of a Glock 9 Mil.

The sun must have been bright in the man’s eyes, too, because he shielded them with his hand, squinting at Sam in disbelief, his eyes as blue as the sky and as wide and open as a child’s.

“Sam?” he asked finally, his voice shaking.

Sam took a deep breath, feeling the ice break apart in his chest.

“G,” he said.

_To be continued…_


	2. Personal Effects - Chapter 2

_WARNING: This chapter is a big schmoop-fest! Depending on your taste, you will either flail or barf._

_Also, trigger warnings still apply, so do read with caution._

***

***

G’s eyes widened further, then narrowed. “Who the fuck are you?”

“G, it’s me. It’s Sam.”

“Like hell.” G’s voice was still shaking, but his grip on the gun was rock steady.

“I can explain.” Sam took a step forward.

“Don’t move!” G barked. “Hands in the air.” 

“Okay, okay.” Sam slowly raised his hands. 

“Who are you?” G demanded. “Who sent you?” His eyes darted around the beach.

“G, it’s me.”

G tightened his jaw, and he gestured with his gun toward the fishing shack. “Move.”

“Okay.” Sam figured G would feel safer inside than out in the open. “No problem.”

G nodded to the door of the shack. “Inside. Try anything, and I will shoot you in the head.”

Sam opened the door and stepped inside, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. 

The interior of the shack was dark, especially compared to the brightness outside. It took a few moments for Sam’s eyes to adjust. When they did, he saw a ramshackle dwelling that bore more than a passing resemblance to the erstwhile boatshed. Lumber and tools were stacked neatly against one wall, while sailcloth and fishing nets hung from the rafters overhead. The only furnishings were a table and chair, a tiny stove, and an even tinier sink, with a single bowl and spoon stacked inside. Through a half-open door, Sam glimpsed a miniscule bathroom with no shower.

On the plus side, the shack boasted an honest-to-God bed in a curtained alcove. By G’s standards, this place was the Ritz. 

The only light came from a bare bulb overhead plus two windows on either side of the room, each with several broken panes covered with cardboard. The wind outside rattled the remaining panes and whistled through the cracks. Sam heard the door slam behind him, then another heavy thud as G shot the bolt.

“Turn around. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Sam turned slowly. G had his back against the outer door, legs spread, feet set, gun pointed. Sam recognized the expression in his eyes — it was G’s “Shoot first and ask questions later” look. Sam had never actually had the look pointed at him before. Now he understood why grown men twice G’s size quailed at it.

“You’ve got thirty seconds,” G said. “Explain.”

Sam took a deep breath. “It’s me.”

“Shut up!” G yelled, and Sam jumped. His partner wasn’t as calm as he seemed. Sam needed to get the situation under control fast.

“I swear to God,” he said carefully. “It’s me. I’m not some foreign operative in disguise, I haven’t had elaborate plastic surgery, you haven’t been drugged or brainwashed or—”

“You’re lying. Sam Hanna is dead. He died in Afghanistan.” Sam could see G’s hands starting to shake. He could see the flutter in his left eyelid and the dark circles under both eyes, the stubble on his chin and his painful thinness. 

“Call Hetty,” Sam said. “She’ll tell you.”

G tilted his head. His finger twitched on the trigger. 

“Seriously.” Sam got down on his knees, keeping his hands high. “I won’t move an inch. Call her.”

G hesitated. “I can shoot you before you get up.”

“I know that,” Sam said softly. “Call Hetty. You can use my phone. It’s in my pocket.”

“I don’t need it.” Keeping his eyes — and his gun — trained on Sam, G reached into his back pocket and pulled out a smartphone. He hit one button with his thumb, obviously speed-dial.

Sam heard the faint sound of a voice at the other end.

“Hetty,” G said, his voice strangled.

The muffled voice spoke again, quickly.

G’s eyes widened, and hope crept into them.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

The voice spoke again.

G turned his upper body slightly away from Sam, and ducked his head. “Hetty, do you _swear_?”

The voice spoke a single word, clearly an affirmative.

G slowly returned the phone to his back pocket, then even more slowly lowered the gun.

“They said you were dead.”

“I know,” Sam said. “They were wrong.”

“I _told_ them,” G hissed. “I told them it wasn’t true, but they wouldn’t listen to me. I told them to fly me to Afghanistan and I would prove it.” G shook his head. “They swore they identified your body.”

“I know. It was a mistake.”

“That’s what I told them!” G’s voice rose. “But then they sent these.” He reached inside his shirt and tugged a chain over his head. It held several dogtags. “I knew you’d never let these be taken off you if you were alive.”

“I didn’t have much choice,” Sam said. “I was unconscious at the time.”

G closed his eyes. “You were captured.”

Sam nodded. 

G flung the dogtags on the table, turned abruptly, and paced the narrow room. “I should have known.”

Sam carefully got to his feet, aware that G still held the gun. “There’s no way you could have—”

“I should have known!” G yelled. “I should have rescued you. God! Why did I listen to them?” He stopped pacing and indicated Sam’s scar and his maimed hand. “Who did that?”

“A local warlord.”

“Is he dead?” G demanded. The shoot-first look was back in his eyes.

“I gutted him myself,” Sam said. 

G looked disappointed, then started pacing again. “Good.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Sam soothed. “The insurgents had me for three weeks, but then another local tribe rescued me. I should have come back immediately. But I felt like—”

“You had to stay and help them fight.”

Sam let out a breath. “Yeah.”

“Of course you did,” G said. “It was the only honorable thing to do.”

Sam let out another breath in relief. G always got him. “I figured I’d stay a few weeks, help them stamp out the insurgents. It took longer than I thought. And they had taken me deep into the mountains. The snow started in August. By the time I was able to walk out...” He gave a helpless shrug. “I swear to God, G, I didn’t know I’d been reported dead. I figured they’d declared me MIA. They still haven’t managed to explain how the mistake happened.”

“The military doesn’t like to admit they make mistakes,” G said bitterly. “And the body...” He took a deep breath. “The body they thought was yours was badly burned. And had your tags.” He frowned as the realization hit. “You were set up.”

“You think?”

“Of course.” G was manic now. “You’ve made plenty of enemies over there. The sons of bitches probably had a bounty on your head.”

“Makes sense,” Sam said. “It would explain why they kept me alive.”

“I knew it!” G pounded his fist on the corrugated metal wall of the shack. “Why didn’t I listen to my instincts?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, G.”

“I knew, in here.” G thumped his fist on his chest. “I knew you were alive.”

“Of course,” Sam soothed. “Just like I knew you’d never kill yourself.”

G’s eyes flickered. “Right.”

Sam frowned. “G—”

But his partner stiffened, holding up a hand for silence. Then Sam heard it — the crunching of feet on the gravel outside. G eased to the window, keeping his body flat against the wall, and peered out. Then he relaxed.

“It’s okay,” he told Sam. “But you should probably stay out of sight.”

He shoved his gun in the back of his jeans and tugged his sweater down over it. Then he opened the door and stepped outside, calling a cheerful greeting in Romanian.

Sam edged to the window and looked out, careful to keep out of view. Through the warped glass, he could see G talking with two women, obviously from the nearby village. They were dressed alike in boots and headscarves, long skirts and handknit sweaters. (Judging by the lumpy style, they had made G’s as well). One was elderly, the other late middle age, probably mother and daughter. Both were short and stout, with the distinctive pigeon-breasted profile of older Eastern European women. The younger woman carried a bucket.

The followed G over to a trough of water beyond the boats. All three studied the water intently for a few minutes until the younger woman pointed. G rolled up his sleeve and plunged his arm into the water, emerging with a furiously wriggling eel. He dropped it into the woman’s bucket. She nodded in approval, then marched off in the direction of the village. The older woman handed G a package wrapped in brown paper.

Then she and G both glanced at the retreating figure, obviously waiting until she was out of earshot. The old woman said something, and G grinned. He pulled some bills from his pocket. With a wink, he tucked them in the old woman’s ample bosom. 

She reached up, cupped G’s face with both hands, and patted his cheek, then said something that made G throw back his head in laughter. He kissed the woman and patted her shoulder. She trudged after her daughter, and G headed back to the shack, still smiling.

When he entered, Sam caught a whiff of freshly baked bread. The smell made him dizzy. G noticed, of course.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Starving,” Sam admitted.

“Have a seat.” G gestured toward the table and chair, and Sam sat. G unrolled the package, revealing a loaf of bread and a slice of fresh goat cheese. G pulled a knife out of his boot and handed it to Sam, hilt first.

“Sorry,” he said at Sam’s look. “I don’t have a lot of utensils.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Sam grumbled.

While he ate, G made coffee on the stove using a small Turkish-style pot. He filled it with bottled water and added finely-ground coffee from a glass jar, then heated it over the burner until the foam rose. Sam watched, fascinated by the concentration on G’s face and the economy of his movements. This was what he had day-dreamed about, all those months in Afghanistan, just the simple joy of watching his partner be himself.

G poured the coffee in a tiny, cracked cup and slid it over the table to Sam. He took a sip and groaned in ecstasy. G grinned.

“Good?”

“Only the best meal I’ve ever had.” Sam glanced guiltily at the scant remains. “You should eat something, G.”

“Not hungry.”

Sam frowned. “You’re too thin.”

G gave his twisted smile. “Okay, _grandma_.”

“Speaking of, who was that outside?”

“Elena? Just a friend.”

“What was the money for?” 

G laughed. “ _Tzuica_ ,” he said. “And gossip.”

“Tzu-what?”

“ _Tzuica_. Plum brandy. Her daughter doesn’t like her buying it.”

“So you’re enabling an old woman?”

“It’s mutual,” G insisted. “We enable each other. I pay for her habit, and she shares.” He reached into the cupboard and pulled out another glass jar filled with clear liquid. He held it out to Sam, who took a sip and collapsed in a coughing fit, eye watering.

“Careful, son,” G said. “That’s sixty percent alcohol.”

“God almighty,” Sam wheezed. “It tastes like paint thinner.”

G shrugged and took the jar back, taking a careless sip. “It’s an acquired taste. Elena also tells me the local comings-and-goings.” 

“The Comescus?” Sam asked.

G’s face darkened. “Exactly.” He prowled the room and looked out the window in the direction of the Comescus’ summer home.

“Any activity?” 

“Some.” G took another drink. “Hetty says they’re mostly holed up in South America. She’s got people watching them.” He gnawed restlessly on his thumbnail.

Sam took a final sip of his coffee and twirled the remaining grounds in the cup. Now that the shock of finding G was over, anger was creeping in. But he needed to keep his cool.

“So this plan that you and Hetty cooked up, whose idea was it?”

G’s eyes became hooded. “Mine.”

“Does anybody else besides Hetty know you’re alive?”

“No.”

“Did you give any thought to the effect it would have on other people?”

G looked at him blankly. 

“Of course you didn’t,” Sam snarled. 

G’s brow creased. “I don’t understand—”

“The team, G, I’m talking about the team!” Sam heard his voice rise and fought to get it back under control. “They’re devastated.”

“They are?” G seemed genuinely confused, and it made Sam even more furious.

“Yes! Nate blames himself, for one thing.”

G shook his head. “He shouldn’t. There was nothing he could have done.”

“What are you saying?”

G’s expression became even more closed. “Nothing. Just that Nate shouldn’t feel responsible.”

“G,” Sam said carefully. “This whole suicide thing was fake, right?”

G turned and put the jar back in the cupboard, then faced the stove, fiddling with the coffee pot. “Of course.”

“G,” Sam said. “Look at me.”

G turned reluctantly, but folded his arms and stared at the floor, a defensive posture.

“Look at me.”

G kept his eyes on the floor. 

The cold feeling was back in Sam’s chest. “You better tell me the damn truth, G. Right now.”

G flinched. “You were gone.” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “You were gone, and I realized...”

It took all of Sam’s training to keep his voice even. “What?”

G shrugged. “It should have been me.”

Sam stared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

G finally looked at him, his blue eyes fierce. “It should have been me who died, not you.”

Sam clenched his fist so hard he could feel his nails cutting into his palm. “How do you figure?

“Come on, Sam,” G said impatiently. “You have people who love you, depend on you. You have friends and family. You have _children_ , for God’s sake. I’m just—” G broke off, shrugging helplessly. “It should have been me.”

Sam was trembling with the effort to stay still. “G, who told you it should have been you instead of me?”

G flushed. “Nobody. 

“Don’t you dare lie to me!” Sam snapped.

G flinched at his tone, but set his jaw. “Nobody told me. They didn’t need to. I knew it. Everybody knew it, even if they didn’t say so.”

“She said it, didn’t she?” Sam whispered. 

“No, Sam, I swear—”

With a crash, Sam brought his fist down on the table. G jumped at the sound, panic in his eyes. 

“What did she say to you?” Sam roared. 

“Okay, okay!” G held out his hands. “I’ll tell you. Just settle down, all right?”

Sam folded his arms. “I’m listening,” he growled.

“Jesus.” G rubbed his eyes, his hand shaking, then crossed his arms again. “I called her. After they gave me these.” He nodded at Sam’s dogtags on the table. “I figured she needed to know. You’d already been officially declared KIA, but we were hanging on to hope. I thought she deserved to hear it from me, rather than some stranger.”

“Keep going,” Sam said when he paused.

“She was upset, okay? Heartbroken.”

Sam snorted in derision, and G’s voice rose.

“Olivia still loves you, okay? I mean, hell, you two were high school sweethearts, best friends. You had children together. You’ll always be a part of each other’s lives. So she said some things.”

“Such as?”

“What is this, the Inquisition?”

“G,” Sam warned.

“Jesus. Okay.” G ran a hand over his face again. “She said it was bad enough I destroyed your marriage—”

“For the last time, G, you didn’t destroy our marriage. We did that all on our own.”

“Yeah? You weren’t divorced when you met me.”

Sam rubbed his eyes wearily. “I had no business marrying Olivia in the first place.”

“It’s okay,” G said quickly. “We’ve talked about this, remember? You said it yourself — where you grew up, being gay wasn’t an option. It wasn’t an option in the military, either.”

“It didn’t stop me from cheating on her with men,” Sam said.

“But you didn’t...that was never serious, not like...”

“Not like us.”

“Exactly. And you fought us like crazy.”

“Yeah, I did. And when I finally told her the truth, I agreed to live a lie for years. Just so Olivia didn’t have to tell anyone her husband left her for another man.”

“I didn’t have a problem with any of that. Plus, we work together, so it's--”

“I have a problem with it,” Sam snapped. “You’re not some dirty little secret. You’re everything to me.”

G blushed and looked away. 

Sam sighed and rubbed his bald head. “Okay. So you called Olivia and she said what?”

“That she wished it was me. That it should have been me.” G’s voice was small.

Sam shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, she’s not wrong.”

Sam bit back a retort. “What happened then?”

G’s voice grew flat, almost dreamy. “I had the gun in my mouth when Hetty came to the door. She made me let her in. She told me that if I was determined to die, I might as well take a few filthy Comescus with me.”

 _Thank you, Hetty_ , Sam thought. But all he said was, “Makes sense.”

“She made me promise...she told me if I ever tried anything like that again, she’d let Nate lock me up and take me apart.”

“Okay,” Sam leaned back in his chair. “So she reported you dead and then you came here?”

“Yeah.” G glared out the window. “Like I said, the Comescus are mostly in South America. I wanted to go there, but Hetty sent me here instead. She thinks they’re just lying low while they figure out their next move. We really cut the head off their organization when we hit them last year.” He smiled thinly in satisfaction. “But Hetty says they’re like a Hydra — cut one head off and they grow three more. But when they do, we’ll be waiting for them.”

“G,” Sam said softly.

G looked at Sam. “Yeah?”

“Come here.”

G hesitated.

“Baby, come here.”

G looked at his feet for a moment. Then he pulled out his gun and laid it on the table next to the knife. He followed it up with two extra clips for the Glock, a wrist blade, and garrote.

He took a step toward Sam.

Sam held out his hand.

G took it, and Sam pulled his partner into his lap. G relaxed against him and buried his face in Sam’s neck. After a few moments, Sam felt warm wetness on his skin. He wrapped both arms around G, cupping the back of his head in his large hand.

“It’s all right,” he said. 

“Thought you were _dead_.” G’s voice was muffled against Sam’s chest.

“I know, but I’m here now,” Sam soothed.

G gave a strangled sob, and his shoulders started to shake. 

Sam tightened his grip. “It’s all right, baby,” he whispered. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

_To be continued..._


	3. Personal Effects - Chapter Three

When Sam woke, it was dark. The wind had died down, and he could hear the soft sound of the waves on the seashore. G was sound asleep next to him, lying on his back with one arm flung carelessly over his head.

Sam cautiously climbed out of bed, relieved when G didn’t stir. He pulled on his jeans, used the restroom, and drank half a bottle of water.

He was somewhat surprised that G hadn’t covered the windows with something. At night, with the light on in the shack, anybody could see directly inside. It would be easy for a gunman to pick him off. He was a sitting duck.

Then Sam realized that, of course, G probably didn’t leave the light on at night. He just sat there, alone in the dark. Scoping the Comescus. Cleaning his guns.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam muttered.

“Whzzit?” G woke with a start and rolled over, his hand sliding under the pillow. His voice rose in panic. “Sam?”

“Looking for this?” Sam held up the Bowie knife he had removed from under the pillow earlier, along with a sawed-off G kept in a makeshift holster strapped to the bedframe. Somehow foreplay with G always involved clearing the area of weaponry.

G squinted blearily up at him. “S’ going on?”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

G looked like he was about to argue, then grunted and fell back face-down on the pillow.

“Hey, G, I’m gonna cover these windows, okay?’”

“’Kay.” G pulled the worn wool blanket over his head. “Don’t put the rabbit under the apple tree.”

“I won’t.” Sam smiled in satisfaction. If G was sacked out deep enough to dream — apparently about bunnies — that meant he’d actually achieved the restful stage of REM sleep, a minor miracle where he was concerned. Sam would have texted Nate with the good news, but that would mean blowing G’s cover. 

Sam managed to hang a few pieces of sailcloth over the windows without waking G, then found a stub of candle and some matches in the cupboard by the sink. He lit the candle and stuck it in the coffee cup, then turned off the overhead bulb. With the windows covered and the warm glow of candlelight, the shack felt almost cozy, a sanctuary from the darkness outside. 

It was still chilly, though. Sam doubted the generator that powered the lightbulb and the stove did much in the way of heat. He wanted to crawl back into bed with G, but instead he got dressed and sat at the table, waiting.

Sure enough, he was just dozing off when his phone chirruped. Sam grabbed it, slipped outside, and managed to answer before it rang again.

“Hello?” 

“Welcome back, Mr. Hamilton. I trust you found your house in order.”

Sam rolled his eyes. Eric had explained to Hetty a million times that there was no such thing as a secure line anymore, just burn phones that could be discarded, but she still insisted on speaking in code.

“I did,” Sam said.

“And how is your business partner?”

“He’s a wreck,” Sam said flatly.

Hetty sighed. “I suspected as much. Trust me when I say it could have been far worse.”

“I understand.” Sam cleared his throat, which felt tight. “You knew,” he said. “You knew I was still...still in the business.”

“I didn’t know, Mister Hamilton. I merely hoped.”

“Still, you kept everything in order. Just in case.”

“One does what one can. Needless to say, I’m delighted you turned up again, although I’m very sorry your employment was terminated. When you’re ready to go back to work, I have a freelance project that might interest you.”

Sam walked along the waterline, feeling his bare feet sink into the cool sand. “I’m listening.”

“A certain family in the trade. I’d like to put them out of business. Permanently.”

“Okay, screw the code.” Sam said. “You’re talking about taking down the Comescus.”

Hetty sighed in disapproval at his lapse. “That is my intent, yes.”

“So that wasn’t just a story you fed G to keep him from pulling the trigger. You really meant it.”

“Of course I meant it.”

“The Comescus have been around for years. Why now?” 

“I’m retired,” Hetty said airily. “I need a hobby.”

“Hetty.”

She chuckled. “Very well, then. My research has turned up some rather interesting historical events. By studying them, I have formed a theory.”

“Concerning?”

“The identity of Callen’s father.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I never kid,” Hetty said severely.

“Okay, who is it?”

“Mind you, it’s just a theory.” 

“I don't care. Just tell me who it is.”

Hetty paused. “Mihail Alecsandri. Alexa Comescu’s nephew, on her sister’s side."

Sam stopped walking. “Hold on, Hetty. Are you telling me G’s parents had some kind of crazy Romeo-and-Juliet thing going on?”

“Two households,” Hetty intoned, “both alike in dignity, in fair Verona where we lay our scene.”

“Okay but—"

“From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean—"

“Hetty...”

“From forth the fatal loins—”

“HETTY!”

Hetty gave an exaggerated sigh of disappointment, but ceased declaiming. “Yes, that is precisely what I’m saying. And it’s precisely why the Comescus killed both Clara and Mihail when they found out about the liaison.”

“And no wonder they want G dead.”

“They don’t want him dead, Mister Hanna. They want him alive. Especially now. Haven’t you ever wondered,” she continued at Sam’s stunned silence, “why they didn’t leave two bodies on the beach that day? If you think any Comescu would hesitate to pull the trigger on a child, you’d be very much mistaken.”

“Okay.” Sam rubbed his face. “Okay, I’ve wondered. But why do you say especially now?”

“Since Alexa was killed in the massacre in the summer house, there’s been a power vacuum amongst the Comescus, for the first time in a generation. There are several factions eager to fill it. This could split the family. Or,” Hetty paused for effect, “a new candidate could unite them.”

“That’s insane,” Sam said. “G would never help the Comescus.”

“Willingly? Of course not. But as a name, a presence, a _symbol_ , he could be quite useful.” 

Sam rubbed his eyes. “If they got their hands on him...”

“Like I said, quite useful. Willing or not.”

Sam looked down the shore, where a distant light at the summer house shown in the darkness. “Let me get this straight. You knew the Comescus were after G, especially since last year. So you’ve been hiding him right under their noses?”

“What better place?” Hetty sounded smug. “Besides, they all think he’s dead.”

“But how—" Sam broke off. “Hunter,” he said. “You think she’s feeding them information.”

“It’s just a theory,” Hetty demurred. 

“Screw theory. That’s why you staged G’s suicide. Not just to keep him alive, but so Hunter would think he was dead.” 

“To quote Shakespeare again, there is method to my madness."

Sam rubbed his eyes. “Hunter was at the house. She signed off on the report. Are you sure she bought it?”

“There is an _art_ to faking a crime scene, Mister Hanna. Remind me to teach it to you some day.”

Sam started pacing again. “How much does G know?”

“At this point? Nothing.”

“You didn’t tell him your theory about his parents?”

“Certainly not,” Hetty said primly. “In his fragile state of mind, the last thing Callen needed was more trauma. But now that you’re back, I think it might be safe to tell him.”

“Okay.” Sam gave the distant light one last glare, then straightened his spine. “How do you want to do this?”

“Meet me in Paris.”

“We can be there tomorrow.”

“For heaven’s sake, Mister Hanna. You just came back from the _grave_. Take a few days off. It will take me that long to assemble the rest of the team.”

“How much do they know?”

“Most of them know nothing. I imagine they will be quite pleased to learn Callen is alive.”

“No kidding. One more thing,” Sam said, thinking of Kensi. “I don’t suppose you know where Deeks is.” 

“Of course I do, Mister Hanna. He’s sitting across from me right now, enjoy a bracing hot cup of China Black.” Sam heard a muffled voice in the background. “I’m supposed to tell you he says ‘Hi.’”

“Jesus.” Sam closed his eyes. “What else do you have up your sleeve?”

“Good night, Mister Hanna,” Hetty purred. “Sleep well.”

***

Sam cautiously opened the door of the shack. Ordinarily, G’s reflexes were so honed that, even asleep, he could distinguish Sam’s tread from any other. But G wasn’t exactly at the top of his game right now, and Sam didn’t relish being greeted with a hail of bullets.

There was no sound, and Sam slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind him. Shivering, he climbed in bed beside his partner. Miraculously, G didn’t wake.

Sam studied him for a moment. Even after their relationship became physical, it took months for Sam to coax G into any sort of post-coital cuddling. It required G to let his guard down in a way he never had in his entire life. He could do if for a job, no problem – because then he was someone else. But to trust another human being enough to fall asleep in their arms? Not happening.

Even now, being able to watch G sleep was a rare treat. And for once, he wasn’t twitching or muttering, just breathing softly and evenly. The candlelight softened the lines in his face and the circles under his eyes, and brought out the reddish-gold color of his hair.

Sam ran his fingertips over one lock, amazed at the soft texture.

G stirred and frowned. “Quit lookin’ at me,” he muttered.

“I like looking at you.” Sam gave in and stroked his hand over G’s hair. “I can’t believe how long it’s gotten.”

“Please.” G yawned. “You just want something to grab onto when you fuck my mouth.”

“I like it when you talk dirty,” Sam admitted. “But I also like this.” He ran his fingers gently through G’s hair. “It’s soft. It feels nice. And it looks...” He paused, searching for the right word.

“ _Drăguţă_ ,” G murmured.

“Huh?”

G opened his eyes and stretched lazily. “It’s what Elena called me today. _Drăguţă_.” 

“Strong like bull?” Sam guessed.

“Pretty like girl.”

Sam fell on his back and roared with laughter until his sides ached.

“Fine, fine,” G said mildly. “Make fun of me all you want. You don’t think I’m pretty?” he teased, as Sam’s laughter subsided to giggles.

Sam rolled over and looked down at him. “I think you’re beautiful,” he said seriously. “But your hair...I don’t know if “pretty like girl” is the phrase I’d choose.”

“Oh, yeah?” G’s eyes lit up with the challenge. “What phrase would you choose, Agent Hanna?’

“You look like Deeks.”

“That does it! I’m shaving it off.” G started to roll out of bed, but Sam wrapped his big arm around his G’s narrow waist, hauled him back, and climbed on top on him, taming him with his hands the way he always did.

They kissed for a few blissful minutes. Then G murmured, “So what did Hetty say?”

“Dammit, G,” Sam groused. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Not when people are talking about me.”

Sam sighed. “She wants us to meet her in Paris in a few days.” He paused. “She has intel on the Comescus.”

G’s eyes flew open. “We can leave now—"

“Hell, no,” Sam ordered. “She said it would take her a few days to assemble the rest of the team. And I’m not ready to share you just yet.”

“So we should do what? Stay here?”

“I’m not complaining,” Sam said. “Are you?”

“I guess not.” G reached up and tugged Sam down next to him, then curled against his side, wrapped an arm around him, and rested his head on his chest. It was their favorite way to fall asleep. G yawned and closed his eyes again. “We’ve got food, booze, coffee...”

“Disgusting eels.”

“A local delicacy,” G insisted. “We can eat, sleep—"

“Make love.”

“’Make love,’” G mocked with a sleepy smile. “You big softie.”

“Fine. We’ll fuck like bunny rabbits.” Sam stroked G’s hair. “And if you keep your hair like this, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Okay, but I’m shaving it before Paris,” G warned. “The team will never let me live it down.”

“Yeah, Deeks would have a field day.”

“It’s not Deeks I’m worried about. It’s Kensi. She’s brutal.”

Sam thought about it. “You’re right.” He curled a lock of G’s hair around his finger. “I love you, G.”

G snuggled closer. “Love you, too. Don’t leave me again, Sam.”

“I won’t,” Sam whispered. “I swear.”

Even after G fell asleep again, Sam’s mind raced. He kept going over Hetty’s theories, weighing variables, plotting trajectories, analyzing the players. He felt restless – a sure sign that he didn’t have all the information he needed in order to proceed, in order to know what the team was up against and how to keep them safe.

But his soldier’s training told him his body needed sleep. Sam forced himself to lie still, matching his breathing to G’s, until at last his eyes closed, the candle on the table guttered out, and they slept together in the soft, quiet darkness.

_The End…except for the Epilogue!_


	4. Personal Effects - Epilogue

_Personal Effects – Epilogue_

Sam set the chair on the sand. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“For the last time, yes.” G stripped off his shirt. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep a lock and put it in your wallet?”

“Shaddap and sit down.”

Grinning, G sat with his back to Sam and tilted his head forward. Sam hesitated, running his hands through G’s hair one last time. Then he bent and kissed the nape of G’s neck, where the hair was the softest and slightly curled.

“Pussy,” G muttered affectionately. 

“Ow!” he added as Sam smacked him across the top of the head.

“Sit still,” Sam ordered, then turned on the electric razor he’d bought in the village. Starting at the back, he shaved G’s head. The locks fell to the sand and were blown away across the beach by the wind, glistening a little in the bright sunshine. 

Sam cleared his throat. “So who taught you to build boats?” he asked.

“Gibbs. He said it was good for the soul.”

“It’s too bad you won’t have time to finish it,” Sam said, carefully shaving around G’s ear. “It’s a beauty.”

G shrugged. “Duty calls.”

Sam finished and stepped back. “Done.”

G stood and rubbed both hands vigorously across head. “God, that feels so much better.”

“You ever wear it long?” Sam asked, a little wistfully.

G’s eyes slid away. “Nah. Foster parents always go for the buzz cut.” He took a bucket of seawater and dumped it over his head. Sam winced. Even in the late October sun, the Black Sea was cold. 

G dabbed his face and chest with his shirt and then pulled it on again. Sam blew the few remaining hairs from the razor and stowed it in his duffel, then set the chair back inside the shack. G had already stowed his weapons in the lockbox beneath the floorboards. They would have to make it to Paris without them, except for garrote. G insisted he carried the length of piano wire for sentimental reasons, because it had been a present from Hetty.

G had also taken his remaining money, wrapped it in brown paper, and tied it with string. Now he crouched down and set it by the door of the fishing shack, weighed down with a rock. He stared at it for a minute, his expression somber.

“She’ll find it,” Sam said. 

“I know.” G stood. “You ready?”

“Ready.”

To Sam’s surprise, G stepped closer, then reached up and ran his thumb gently along Sam’s scar. Sam caught his hand and held it against his cheek for a moment.

“Not your fault,” he said. “Besides, the guy is dead.”

G scowled in annoyance. “Fine.” He reached down and hoisted his satchel over his shoulder. When he looked at Sam again, he had his “locked and loaded/good to go” face on.

“Let’s move out,” he said.

He turned and walked quickly up the beach, eager to get on the road, like always. And like he always did, Sam followed G and watched his back.

_The End_

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PICTURE ADDED! Here's a pic of Pretty!G, courtesy of wallflower  
http://i24.photobucket.com/albums/c23/wallflower0718/Icons/mine/chris-nrdc.jpg

_Author’s notes:_

Okay, I'm feeling a little guilty about the lack of smut in this story, so let me 'splain.

One, I suck at writing smut. Give me a gunfight over a sex scene any day.

Two, in my version of fanon, Sam and G's relationship is somewhat complicated. Basically, making love with Sam Hanna is like a Barry White song - slow and tender and deep. G, on the other hand, likes it quick and rough, because anything slow and tender terrifies him. So there's always this kind of push-pull in their relationship. G loves it when he can make Sam lose control and be rough with him. Sam loves it when he can persuade G to slow down and enjoy.

And then there's the situation. The guys haven't seen each other for six months and both thought the other one was dead. So they're raring to go. However, Sam figures out pretty quick that G hasn't been with anyone else since Sam supposedly died. Part of him is like "YAY!" because, as we all know, Sam doesn't like to share G with anyone. On the other hand, he doesn't want to hurt him. G, on the other hand, is all "Give it to me, big boy! I like pain!" However, he hasn't exactly stocked the cabin with lube. Which makes things potentially hot, but also potentially awkward and somewhat technical 

So then I figure, well, maybe Sam goes first and then they used the *** as a ********* and Sam ***** G like there's no tomorrow. But again, that's getting a little technical and my mojo just can't handle it. (I figure if I blush just typing the words, I'm never going to be able to write it.)

Long story short, we only got afterglow. If another writer feels inspired to dip their toes in this 'verse and write some porn, I'm sure we'd all enjoy it very much. *hint hint*

Anyway, I hope ya'll like the story. I had fun writing it.


End file.
